Hate Poems
by Querel
Summary: The product of a volatile black romance and two sicknasty rappers. Prime Pairing #3 in Querel's Shipping Wall. Warnings:Super squicky sexual content; bloodplay, humiliation, wound penetration, emetophilia, references to necrophila. It's just gross, okay?


Everything hurts. Everything hurts like it's the best thing ever. And I can't break this arc over me, this color band of the shifting weather. Cause I feel you. I feel you inside and on me like the blood in my veins and the shift of my heartbeat.

And everything…it's all in pain. I've never been so happy to be cut open, a bitch to your blade. It stings and these things that you've spoken about make me want to sing out my howls to your red, red moon.

Not red, but the blackness I feel for you.

You and your motherfucking black and red eyes. The black for the shields and the red that you hide. But I've seen it once when I desperately tried. And I'll see it again on the day that you die

by my claws.

Yeah, you heard right, I ain't letting you go. Not this time or ever. So you can keep that know-what in your think pan to stew along with these whispers I keep safe for you.

Hear me…lowblood…. Human…. Precious piece of shit on my shoe….

Don't think I'll let you forget what I say; I'll sing it in lullabies when your dreams drift away in a promise to watch over you as you lay

sleeping and

thinking that I won't be drinking

the tears from your face while you pray

for a motherfucking miracle to keep you from sinking

to much darker ways. Like blinking your eyes to an unshielded day. And knowing your darkness is one kiss away.

One bitten kiss with bloodied lips, so red! like the fluctuate flips of kismesis to pity instead. Not the way it works in my head, bro. I'm black for you like the night don't end and the stars don't shine and the planets are dead.

Dead….

Dead, oh, I'd _love_ to fuck you dead.

With your head off your shoulders in a pool full of red—GOGDAMMIT, IT'S BLACK, HAVE YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID?

Such a pain in my ass; let me be the pain in yours and keep going and going till you can't feel it's sore

or anything else.

Good thing my hate burns so hot for your heat. Without your cruel touch I'd just fall asleep

at night

and not have the chance to strangle and fight at the grip that you keep just for me and its pathetic squeeze on my pipes.

Heheh.

You're weak….

Though I gotta say that your bulge in my nook's got a hurt that's too sweet. Makes my spine get all crooked with the way that you eat out the sloppy wet folds,

push your tongue in so deep

like I shove my own bulge down your throat 'till you beat off

whatever I throw in your face. 'cept for the bucketless juice that you taste whenever I cum from your ridiculous pace.

I bet you adore slurpin' up that waste, you whore, with your ass spread wide like you're asking for more. I've got your shit on my bulge and it's a motherfuckin' lie to say at my core

I don't love your filth on me.

Because I do.

Love it almost as much I hate you

and your pity-red eyes and your human-pale skin and the grit of your teeth when you won't let me into your mouth cuz you know I've been tonguing those parts of you that make you sick to even begin to think about.

Don't you dare think about _anything_ other than me.

Not right now when I've got you beneath me or in a few hours when you'll be on top of me or in the next day when you'll be on your knees and NOT begging for mercy

because, gogdammit, you never do.

It's the absolute truth and it's just so you and so perfect and you…

you don't even know how much your bullshit gets me going. I could be at it without ever knowing how long I've been standing still, dreaming and motherfucking _glowing_ in blackrom.

It's a black glow, you see, but you don't 'cuz I don't ever do that when you're with me,

I'm just way too busy trying to get you to plea.

Beg me, oh, beg me for freedom from that boredom you flee from and come seeking me.

But you never say it.

Just pick up your hand and splay it over my chest and use that blade to fill in the rest

like you fill me to bursting and mess up my head 'till we drown in my indigo mess on your bed.

Have I told you I wanted to fuck you to death, yet? Pretty sure I mentioned it further back; yep. It's my dream, a scene I can't drop from my think pan. Just watching you scream with my claws in the gleam—FUCKING RED—of your blood….

It just seems like you don't get what I mean.

I want to break you. Shake you. Cut you up and lacerate you. Hold you down while I masturbate to you retching on the floor

from not knowing when to close your mouth and stop drinking more of the cum that's pouring out of me

you sick fuck.

Gog, I love your hate for me.

* * *

Shit, you don't even realize what's going through me when I look at those eyes of yours and their sly yellow disguise keeping back the surprise of your

absolute fucking batshit insanity.

But, hey, it'd be lies if I stood back and compromised, said I ain't so galvanized by the way you cling and rip at the last few threads of my humanity.

Not that I ain't down with your quadrants and shit because now that I'm this far, I gotta admit that this kismesis thing or whatever you call it is pretty much tight and legit in my book.

Which was how I got over, latched onto the hook that jerked me out of the water and into your nook, just as wet, I will bet, as the jizz that you took

from my cock that first night when you fessed up your spite and said you'd fight for your right to choke on what might be your downfall.

It's called my dick.

I'd say don't let it get to you but I'm already in every hole that you have and some weren't there to begin with. I make them myself when you're held down and pinned—and I start thinking you actually like this sick sort of sin—with stab wounds in your gut and my cock pushing inside every mouth that I've made

every pair of wet lips that bleeds from the spade. That's what it is, right? No hearts for this one. Just indigo blackness and virtues of Sodom.

You've got girlish parts but that's about as relevant to me as picking between having and eating: I'll just have all three.

Did I not mention the third hole? The one in between? Another one I put there and you shoulda seen the look on your face when it pierced you right through, when your eyes rolled back and your face turned blue

with that weird troll blush of yours.

Every part of you is tight and the length of you is right for making me gag when you cram it down my throat and you ram against my face and I can't breathe between the spaces of your legs when they close, wrap around and press my nose to your skin—smells like shit, by the way—and my lungs won't inhale like they should.

I'd push you off if I could but your bulge on my tongue slips and it just feels so good to have my teeth where they'll hurt you and you know that I would if you decide to get stupid and I know you understood

when I said I will end you if you ever made me do something I don't want to do. Though I still don't know how far the limits go with you even have those? Is that a thing you do?

Sometimes, there's quiet moments after we're both through, so bloodied up and tired and I remember when I knew once upon a time that this guy I am ain't me. Never thought that I would be who I turned out to be with you and your fluids all over me.

Those tired times I don't mind keeping close and making rhymes with you in shadows where we talk about softer things and have kisses where the cuts will sting but leave no trace of that to bring up later because later all we want is skull fucking.

No, we haven't done that yet and I don't think we will, now that I'm considering.

There's days when I think how a normal romance would be, but then I see your face and watch the way you smirk at me and growl and roar and spit at me and keep fucking telling me how you want to see me, not just your body, motherfucking moron, your eyes, let me see.

You hate those shades. Which is why I keep them on. That's spades, right?

A perfect target to pick a fight; starts in scratches, ends in delight like strangleholds and sudden horn-bites. The horns on your head, of course. Those ones that make noise just freak me the fuck out.

And I suppose it's kinda cute how you like to honk them at me out of nowhere but that shit messes me up so much, I can't even stick to my rhymes, yo.

But when I'm back with the flow and I've got places to go shove myself into you know that you can't stop the show. I put the scratches through that face paint and turn it indigo like it turns you on so much that your bone bulge starts to grow.

And when you're over the edge you can't hide it cuz I know just what you sound like when you're groaning and moaning my name to sound of your spite, it's the sound that I rock to when your troll-cock's inside me, writhing and driving me way past the edge of reality.

Your claws dig in deep and I'm bleeding for you. Yeah, it's red, unlike you. Can't be dark all the way through. There's nothing I can do

about that but if you're nice (for a change) maybe I'll paint my tongue black.

It sucks that it's love but I'm in hate with you.


End file.
